


In My Sights

by CaliHart



Series: Clint Barton Bingo [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Breakfast, Food, I want waffles instead, Planned Assassination, Pre-Slash, Rated T for almost-murder, Waffles, Winter Soldier Clint Barton, but then the assassin went nah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliHart/pseuds/CaliHart
Summary: The Soldier wasn't quite prepared for the way the target looked in the morning light. He definitely didn't plan on letting him live, let alone taking him out for breakfast.
Series: Clint Barton Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514243
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo, Mandatory Fun Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Clint Barton Bingo, square B1, "Morning". Also a late fill for the Mandatory Fun Day prompt "Winter Soldier Clint". Many thanks to Dottie as usual for betaing and catching the typos I missed

The Soldier scanned the rooftop where he had been told to set up his sniper nest. It was a bare roof surrounded by a low wall, and the target lived in the building to the south. The Soldier pulled out his scope and checked sightlines from various points along the roof, eventually settling at the easternmost corner. It was still dark, but morning would be coming soon, and it would be better if the rising sun wasn’t going to be in his eyes when he was trying to line up his shot. He could do it, he had done it before, but it was easier if he didn’t have to. Not that he would ever tell his handlers that he had chosen his position to avoid getting the sun in his eyes. The wind was better at the angle, he would say. It wasn’t really, but most of them didn’t have sniper experience and knew nothing about wind speed and angles. He also liked the way the wind ruffled his hair, just short enough around his face that it didn’t fall into his eyes, but he wouldn’t tell them that either. 

The Soldier tied his longer blond hair back and settled into position, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, sinking down into the sniper’s stillness, ready to hold the position without doing more than blinking for hours. As he waited for the target to appear, he mentally reviewed what he had been told and read in the file. 

The target, named James Buchanan Barnes, nicknamed Bucky by his friend Steven Grant Rogers, was a war veteran who had received a medical discharge after a roadside bomb in Afghanistan had resulted in him losing most of his left arm. He worked at the Starbucks one block down from his apartment building while he went to school at Brooklyn College. He had an appointment that morning with Anthony Edward Stark, who was working on building a line of fully functional prosthetic limbs, and Barnes was one of the test subjects getting an experimental model. After his fitting that morning, the arm would be his. 

The Soldier’s superiors didn’t like Barnes’s potential. As an intelligent man studying engineering, best friends with Captain Rogers who was very influential in his role as Captain America, and with connections such as Stark, they wanted Barnes removed from the picture before he could do something that would ruin several years of hard work. 

The sky was slowly lightening when the Soldier saw a light come on in the apartment he had been told was Barnes’s. It offered no good sightlines, with curtains that stayed closed and dim lighting that never showed silhouettes, so the Soldier adjusted his aim down. He would have to take his shot on the street. 

He kept his eyes on the apartment, watching until the lights went out, and then looked down to wait for Barnes to exit the building. The sun was rising, and people were starting to stir on the streets. Not enough to obscure his shot or let Barnes hide in a crowd, but enough that there would be several witnesses, and the Soldier would have to pack up and flee quickly before emergency services could be summoned. 

The door to the building opened, and Barnes stepped out on the street. The Soldier drew back his bowstring, ready to take the shot, but paused in the middle of letting out his breath. The morning light seemed to gild Barnes in gold, painting him in its radiance and making him smile. Something inside the Soldier stuttered, froze, and then eased out with his breath. He carefully released the tension on his bow string, returning it to ready position with his arrow still nocked. Barnes looked gorgeous in the slowly brightening morning. Something in the Soldier settled, and he returned his arrow to his quiver and his bow to his case, quickly packing up and leaving the rooftop. The handlers could deal with it; he wasn’t taking the shot. He glanced over once he hit street level and watched Barnes before he disappeared around a corner. 

Well. 

Maybe not _that_ shot. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Clint Barton Bingo square G2, "Waffles"

Bucky left the Tower exhausted. He didn’t mind that Stark had wanted to set his fitting meeting for an hour after sunrise, it gave him time for coffee and a donut first, but Tony was so energetic he made Bucky tired just being in the same room. Trying out the arm hadn’t helped; his brain wasn’t used to working in that way, forcibly making neurons fire to make the arm work. It had been too much altogether and meant that Bucky couldn’t take the arm home with him like had been the plan. He had had to make further appointments for every day that week to build up his endurance, and then they would take another look at the arm becoming his permanently. 

He blamed his exhaustion and his distracted thoughts for the fact he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking. He hit something solid and stumbled back a few steps, looking up to see a tall man with rough-cut blond hair standing in front of him, holding his hands out like he was going to try to catch Bucky. He was wearing an oversized purple hoodie, black cargo pants, and black gloves on his hands. 

“I’m...sorry,” the man said awkwardly. 

“No, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Bucky said, smoothing his hair back and self-consciously straightening his shirt. 

“You’re—James Barnes, aren’t you?” the man asked. 

Bucky paused and gave the man a thorough once-over. He didn’t look the slightest bit familiar. “Who’s asking?” 

“My name is…” The man paused, eyes scanning the surroundings, and he watched a taxi advertising the new Clint Eastwood movie passing by. “Clint. My name is Clint.” He paused again and shook himself. “I...wanted to talk to you. Maybe over breakfast?” he asked, stilted and hopeful. He ducked his head a little and looked up at Bucky from under his eyelashes, which was a feat considering he had to be at least a good six inches taller than Bucky. 

Bucky glanced around. The man seemed awkward, but not overly suspicious, and though Bucky could see power in his stance, he didn’t seem dangerous. 

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky said. “I could go for some breakfast.” The man, ‘Clint’, gave him a shy, sweet smile. 

“There is a building on the next street that has waffles. We could go there?” he offered. 

“Waffles are always good. Lead the way,” Bucky said. 

Clint turned on his heels and marched down the street, Bucky trailing along behind him and taking time to further study the man. He looked like he had _at least_ three concealed weapons, sturdy boots and on further inspection, his pants seemed more suited to combat than he had first thought. The hoodie was possible stolen but it was clean, and the bagginess likely hid even more weapons on his body. Bucky would bet on two guns and at least three knives. Most people didn’t wear leather gloves, so his hands probably gave away something about him. 

Clint glanced back a few times to make sure Bucky was still following, and Bucky gave him a reassuring smile each time. Whoever this man was, whatever he wanted, Bucky had the feeling it was important with a capital I. 

Clint led him into an iHop where Clint asked to be seated in a corner, and then promptly placed his back against the wall. Bucky didn’t miss the way his eyes scoped out the exits and eyed the staff and other customers alike. It must have been satisfactory, because the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, enough to pick up a menu and scan its contents. Bucky flipped through his own menu and quickly decided on strawberry french toast and coffee. He glanced up and saw Clint frowning, looking slightly confused. 

“Need help?” Bucky asked, unsure why _that_ was the question that came out of his mouth. Clint looked up and nodded. Bucky flipped his menu back open. “You mentioned waffles, so you could get the waffle combo platter, it has bacon or sausage and eggs with it. Bacon’s always good. And then they usually give a variety of syrups so you can try different ones: classic maple, a berry flavor, and some sort of fruit. I’m getting coffee to drink, do you want some?” He looked up and Clint nodded again, looking relieved. Bucky gave him a quick smile and ordered for both of them when a waitress came to their table. He glanced at Clint and noticed he was watching all the newcomers to the restaurant. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Bucky asked. Clint looked at him and then down at the table, reaching out to adjust his silverware. 

“I am not sure where to start,” Clint said softly. 

“The beginning is always a good place,” Bucky supplied. The waitress came by with their coffee, leaving a pot and two mugs along with a bowl filled with creamer containers. He gave her a smile and thanked her and then filled both mugs, leaving space for cream and sugar. “Go ahead and fix it up however you want. I like my coffee sweet.” He added cream and sugar to his coffee and stirred it, watching Clint take small sips and experiment with adding different amounts of sweetener. He waited, letting Clint gather his thoughts, until the waitress returned with their food. As Bucky was cutting into his french toast with his fork, Clint took a slow deep breath and then looked up. 

“I’m the Winter Soldier.”


End file.
